


Family (working title)

by Nanna_Jemima



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Because the Dragonborn has other stuff to do, Canon-Typical Violence, Companions without the Dragonborn, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16619789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanna_Jemima/pseuds/Nanna_Jemima
Summary: Vilkas always objects to the newest recruit of the Companions. He doesn't have the good feeling about it that Kodlak does. Well, what if Vilkas is actually the one who's right? And what if the Dragonborn just doesn't jive with the Companions? My completionist gamer self loves how you can rise to the top of every faction outside of the civil war in Skyrim, but my storyteller self finds it ridiculous and longs for the days of Morrowind, where you had to choose. So here's my attempt at a take on the Companions plotline, where the Dragonborn isn't present other than in brief retellings of their brief previous interactions. There might also be smut at some point, because hey, Vilkas and Farkas are present, and who can truly resist?Please note: this is not a main work of mine. The idea came to mind and I had to write it down. We'll see where it goes.





	1. Chapter 1

Vilkas wiped blood from his blade and glanced at his brother. Did Farkas feel the call as badly as he did surrounded by fresh kills? His twin met his eyes. Yes. He definitely did. Vilkas clenched his teeth and swallowed thickly. It wouldn't do to lose control. They were here for a purpose.

Farkas made his way up the ramparts of the old fort. Vilkas watched him as he carefully balanced on broken beams and fallen rubble. The place was so far beyond falling apart that even its name had been lost. Calling it a ruin would be charitable. Skjor had been dead certain that there were Silver Hand people hiding out here, and Kodlak had been adamant that neither Skjor nor Aela would be the one to go. Not after their newest recruit left.

Farkas jumped back down from the crumbling walls opting to not bother with a climb. Vilkas joined him by the door. It was hanging off its hinges. It didn't look like anything anyone would be able to feel remotely safe hiding behind. The two dead look-outs – both armed with silver blades – told them Skjor had been right, though.

“Age before beauty,” Farkas said with a grin as he held the battered door open. Vilkas snorted in response but walked through the stone portal into the darkness. The outer rooms looked every bit as abandoned as the exterior of the fort. They slowly crept further inside. He sniffed cautiously, hearing his twin do exactly the same right behind him. People. Wolves. Silver. Fear. Blood. Lots of a blood. They had definitely come to the right place. Once again he met his brother's eyes. None of the previous mirth showed on Farkas' face. They both knew what the Silver Hand did if they managed to catch a werewolf alive.

The hidden door would probably have stayed secret a lot longer if not for the slightly heigthened senses the Beast blood gifted them with even when in human form. A wall sconce looking uncharacteristically well-polished for a place like this opened it. After that it didn't take them long to find the fight they came for.

* * *

Frida attempted to lift her head as the sounds of fighting reached her ears, but she was too exhausted. She burned. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to run.

The din echoed from the stone walls and made her head hurt. She felt like clawing her ears off. Her hands twitched, but remained where they were. Metal against metal. The sound was painful. She breathed a sigh of relief when it stopped. The screams didn't stop. There were growls. Breathing hurt.

The scent hit her nose like a stampeding mammoth. Friend. Friends. She found the strength to open her eyes as the metal bars of her cage swung open.

“Shor's balls, she's alive!”

Frida attempted to focus on the man approaching her, but her vision was too blurry. Her head too heavy. Her knees hurt. She felt a hand under her chin, lifting her head for her. Instead of speaking words she breathed bubbly blood at him. When he sniffed her, she felt the movement more than heard the sound. An arm wrapped around her torso. Tight. It hurt. But it made her arms hurt less. She sniffed again. Friend. Still. Not like them.

“Farkas, see if you can find a key for these things.”

* * *

Farkas knew he wasn't the brightest of the bunch, but he wasn't completely dim either. Warriors didn't stay alive for very long in Skyrim if they were. He knew keys weren't gonna be enough.

He moved a Silver Hand corpse inside the dungeon, so he could close the door. Then he locked it. He wanted to kick the dead werewolf hunter, no, werewolf torturer, but there was no point. The woman was already dead, as were her compatriots. Time was better spent on the survivor. Bringing the keys back to Vilkas, he wondered if she'd make it. By the looks of her, hopes were slim.

Vilkas had placed himself next to the naked woman, holding up her weight with an arm around her. Her breath was shallow and wet.

“Get these first.” His brother indicated the locked bands around her upper arms and her neck. Farkas' gaze was drawn instead to the three dagger hilts protruding from her torso.

“Shouldn't we pull those knives out of her?”

“Yes, but not until she's free. Hurry up.”

Farkas did as Vilkas said, realising he was right. Once they pulled them out, she'd be bleeding anew,

“Be careful. There's silver in them. In all of them,” his brother warned as he reached for the first of them.

The implications weren't lost on him as the sting and burn of the silver irritated his skin. “She'll transform the moment, she's loose.”

Vilkas nodded looking grim. “That can't be helped. We can't leave her like this.”

“And we can't transform and take her down,” Farkas pointed out and added: “I locked the way out.”

Vilkas stared at him. Scrutinized him. “Good. She won't hurt anyone innocent, then.”

Again his brother was right. He usually was. Vilkas indicated the manacles and chains at her ankles next. Farkas crouched before them and looked up as he freed one leg. Nord women were powerfully built, just like the men. He couldn't recall ever having seen one looking so thin and harrowed.

As he shuffled to get her other leg free he sniffed again. Blood. And... no. Oh the bastards. Farkas realised he'd let out a growl, when his brother asked him what was wrong. He ignored the question. Some things should remain private. She would tell if she wanted to. It wasn't his place.

He stood, and Vilkas indicated the remaining manacles around her wrists. He turned away instead. It was better to be prepared. Ignoring Vilkas' questions he dragged two corpses into the cell and dumped them in front of the woman.

“She'll need it,” he said simply. “And she'll want to.”

Vilkas grunted in the affirmative. “Daggers or manacles first, you think?”

He had no idea, so he shrugged. He carefully touched the hilt of one of them. Not silver. That was something at least. He made up his mind. “Daggers, I think.”

His brother nodded. “Dump two more in here.” His voice had taken on a tight quality.

Farkas looked at Vilkas trying to figure out what he was thinking, but did as he ordered.

“Give me the one key, remove those daggers, and then get out. Lock the cage.”

Farkas balked. “You can't be serious. You mean to be here with her when she transforms and you can't? Free her, then come out. She'll be busy with them.” He gestured at the four corpses now lying in a heap in the cage.

“You might be right. I just don't want to risk both of us.”

“Vilkas, together we have a chance against her. If you really think we'll have to kill her anyway, why not just put her out of her misery right now? No risk.”

“Because I don't think we'll have to, but if I'm wrong...”

“You're never wrong,” Farkas stated with conviction and started to pull the first dagger out of the woman's abdomen. He was careful to not make the injuries worse, but removing it also meant removing the plug from the hole it had made in her belly. Fresh blood gushed out, when the blade slipped from her body.

She groaned. Bubbled. Farkas thought he heard a “please” in there. When all three were out, he made quick work of the manacles. Vilkas practically dumped her on top of the Silver Hand corpses, and they rushed out of the cell.

Her transformation was quick. It was always much quicker, when done by instinct and out of necessity than when they freely elected to transform. By the time they had locked the cage door the ravenous werewolf was clawing through the third of the corpses he had dragged in there. They shared a worried glance, but there was nothing more they could do at the moment.

* * *

The burning lessened. Then stopped. There was hunger. Pain. Friend. Food. Life. Death.

Soft meat.

Tender.

Tasty.

Teeth rending it from the bones.

Strong heart. Emptying its blood down her gullet.

Strength.

Blood. More blood. Living blood.

Rushing blood. She rushed towards the blood.

Couldn't reach. Growled. Sniffed.

Blood.

Friend.

Peace.

Her vision began clearing. The man. The man smelling like friend.

Ice-blue eyes.

Satiation overcame her. Exhaustion.

She grabbed the bars. Watched in fascination as hands that weren't hers became hers. Sought the man's eyes again. So clear.

She slid to the floor. The metal bars pushed her away, and then the man was there again.

Friend. Darkness.

* * *

“Ysmir's beard...” Vilkas heard Farkas' muttered curse from across the room. He could only agree with his brother's assessment.

The woman had crumpled to the floor, where she stood. Vilkas rolled her onto her back. Not that he harboured any illusions that any position would be comfortable on the stone floor, but he needed to check her injuries. As expected, gorging on four corpses had been sufficient to heal the stab wounds. It should also start her recovery nicely, but it would take considerably longer to swing back from what had evidently been prolonged starvation. No amount of accelerated werewolf healing could fix that.

Farkas stopped by his side. “I half-expected her not to survive the transformation back.”

Vilkas nodded while he carefully checked the woman's head for injuries. “I wasn't sure either. She's not out of the woods yet. But she lives.”

“She stopped...”

“Yes.” The werewolf had met his gaze and stopped.

“You think she has control like we do?”

Vilkas shrugged. “Can't say. Could just be exhaustion that stopped her.” He looked up at his brother. “You went looking?”

Farkas nodded. “Found it. Skjor was right.” He held up another of the fragments. That's what they had come here for in the first place. “What do we do with her? We can't just leave her here.”

“Of course not. There's room for her in Jorrvaskr. Just need to get her there.”

“If we take turns carrying her...” Farkas was right. They could make it without the aid of any carts. Safer that way. Should she transform again, they could both follow suit and keep her in check without any witnesses. Vilkas nodded his assent.

Picking through the things the Silver Hand had taken off of their victims proved a depressing affair, but neither of them felt right about clothing the woman in her torturers' garb. And she would need clothing if she was to survive their trek. The only dress they could find had belonged to someone much shorter than her, but with a pair of breeches underneath she'd be warm enough. Socks, boots, gloves and a cloak to wrap her in had them feeling fairly certain she had a decent chance.

“What do you think Kodlak will say?” Farkas had asked him before they left the Silver Hand dungeon.

Vilkas had had no answer for him. After the debacle with the new recruit, he wasn't so sure Kodlak would be the one to see clearly anyway.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Put her in my room,” he'd said, when they arrived in Jorrvaskr. His room had plenty of space for them to work, and he could easily find another place to sleep. Vilkas had accepted his suggestion with a nod.

Now the woman was sleeping fretfully on his bed. Better than being unconscious, he supposed. Vilkas had gone to see Kodlak about what they had found. If he strained his ears, Farkas could hear them talking quietly in the next room, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He could also hear Tilma out in the hallway. Just the woman he needed. He quietly left the room.

Tilma being... well, Tilma, was busy sweeping the hallway clean of all the dirt he and Vilkas had dragged in, when they arrived in a hurry. Farkas immediately felt guilty for not having thought of that.

“Oh, never you mind, dear boy, you have your duties, I have mine. What did you want?”

“Uhhh, sorry. Food. Something warm. Anything ready?”

“Well, Athis brought in a deer earlier. It's roasting as we speak. Did you really not notice it, when you came in?” Her motherly admonishments always made him feel like a foolish child.

“No. I mean, yes, I did. I meant, something uhhh soft. Gruel, stew, porridge, anything?”

Immediately Tilma's demeanor changed. A look of deep concern spread across her face. “Oh dear, someone's injured? Your brother...?”

Farkas quickly shook his head and lifted a hand as if to defend against Tilma's worry. “Vilkas is fine. We, uhh, found someone. Not injured, but exhausted and starving.” Not injured anymore, anyway, he thought to himself, before he continued. “And not awake, so nothing that needs chewing.”

Tilma nodded and placed the broom against a wall. “I'll see to it. Your room?”

Farkas stopped her. “I can get it myself, I just needed to know if there was anything ready. Or left over from earlier.”

“Of course. Always.” She pointed, and he was already moving down the hall. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she called to his back.

* * *

When Vilkas and Kodlak walked into Farkas' room they found him sitting at the foot of his own bed leaning against the wall.

Farkas had ditched his armour and was down to his breeches and a light shirt. Kodlak couldn't fault him. He could tell from Vilkas' incessant fidgetting that he, too, was looking forward to getting out of the heavy steel. Vilkas grinned at his brother. “Getting some sleep?”

Farkas snorted. “I wish. Got some food in her.” He gestured at the bowl of potato soup on the table.

Kodlak moved to the edge of the bed, taking in the sight of the sleeping woman. Somehow he had expected her to look even worse after Vilkas' tale of the dungeon they'd found her in. She was thin, that much was true, much too thin, but she had been no waif, when she'd been caught. Used to hard work – and maybe fighting. Difficult to say. She looked peaceful enough as she lay there. A slight crease in her forehead showed lingering pains, but hardly anything of great concern. A scar marred her upper lip, clearly it had once been split. Now it made her look like she sneered at something. An injury from before the Beast entered her blood.

Her hair bore the most blunt evidence of her ordeal. The dark blonde locks were dirty and matted. Kodlak had his doubts that they could be combed out, but that was for her to find out and decide about, when she woke up. He reached down to feel her forehead, but before he could sit down, Farkas spoke, a slight warning present in the young warrior's tone: “Wait. You should see this first.” Kodlak withdrew his hand and moved away from the bed again.

Vilkas standing by his right seemed surprised. True, it wasn't often that Farkas thought to direct their Harbinger in anything. It must really be important to the man. Perhaps they had both matured more than he had really acknowledged yet. Farkas' concern for the woman on the bed was evident in the deep frown.

“Well...?” Kodlak prompted gently, hoping to get an explanation. Something Vilkas either hadn't seen or hadn't thought to mention. Another unusual thing. Vilkas tended to be the more perceptive of the two, though that quite often led others to underestimate the larger twin.

Farkas' frown deepened. “Look,” he said. He cautiously placed a hand on the woman's ankle. She jerked violently, kicked, tore her ankle free and curled up in the other end of the bed. She was snarling. It sounded truly pathetic with a human voice not meant for such sounds, but they all knew the feeling and what she meant.

Kodlak glanced between them. “How did you manage to bring her back here?” This was not at all what Vilkas had described.

Farkas got up, walked to the side of the bed. “Now see here.” He sat down on the edge and placed his hand near the woman's head. Not touching her, but slowly inching closer to her nose. She sniffed. Once, twice, then turned her face to his hand and nuzzled into it. Kodlak's jaw nearly dropped to the floor as Farkas could then easily guide the woman back to a comfortable position.

“Don't know what they did to her,” Farkas said. “Don't know how much control she has. Right now? Not much. But she's decided to trust me. Us.” He indicated himself and Vilkas and then looked at Kodlak. “Wanna see if she likes you?”

Kodlak nodded slowly. “It would be good to know, whether she responds to the wolf blood in general or whether it's just the two of you.”

Vilkas nodded in agreement, but Kodlak had made up his mind and continued: “But not now, I think. It can wait until she wakes. For now, it's best that no one but you come in here. We know nothing about her.”

On his right Vilkas groaned. “But how will we have time for training with the whelps?”

Kodlak couldn't help but smile sadly. Trust Vilkas to always worry about his duties first – never about whether he'd have time for drinking with the others, whether in Jorrvaskr or in The Bannered Mare.

“I will see to it that Skjor and Aela pull their weight with the recruits. You two have certainly done more than your share of that work. I'm sure it won't do me any harm to partake either.” He would simply have to postpone some of his inquiries. This was far more important than his vague hopes.

Farkas from his place at the bedside looked to his brother. “Hey Vilkas, Tilma said she would heat water for a bath for us. I really want that. Would you sit with her,” he nodded at the woman, “while I go wash all of this road off my hide.”

Vilkas shrugged. “Sure. Let me just get out of the plates.”

“Well, it seems you two will have this in hand without my aid,” Kodlak concluded, once more wondering at how Vilkas would forego his own needs the moment someone else voiced theirs. “I'll go find Skjor and let him know you'll have less time for training.”

* * *

Movement.

Friend.

Good.

Hunger.

Food.

Good.

Warmth.

Friend.

Safe.

Right.

Keep.

Movement. No.

Keep. Stay.

Fingers scrabbling for purchase. Finding it. Keeping it.

* * *

Vilkas had meant to simply sit and read by her bedside, but seeing the difference in her reactions, he thought it might be safer to sit on the bed next to her. Without knowing anything about her, her blood or her forebear, keeping her calm and feeling safe was a priority. Spontaneous, panicked transformations in the basement at Jorrvaskr would be the epitome of disaster.

First letting her sniff his hand like Farkas had done to let her know who was with her, he gently prodded her to wiggle further across the bed, so he could sit beside her head and lean against the wall. Neither of them had needed to announce their identity to her like that on the way home, but then there probably hadn't been quite as many people-smells out in the wilds.

As he said he would, he had stripped down to breeches and shirt like his brother. A quick washcloth handled the worst grime, but he would definitely be in line for that bath once Farkas was done. For now he would read.

Focus did not come as easily as he had hoped. Though she slept, it was far from peaceful. No tossing and turning, thankfully, but the occasional twitch, grunt or whimper belied the nightmares she must have been having. He had seen Silver Hand hide-outs before, had seen the remains of the werewolves they'd caught. He had killed several werewolves who had been maddened beasts in their cages. The implements of torture that were invariably found next to those cages always left him wondering, whether they had been thus maddened before their capture. Impossible to tell.

Unthinking he placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. To calm, to comfort. She quieted somewhat. After their trek where he and Farkas had taken turns keeping her warm, it was no surprise that she would once again seek to be close to either of them. Feeling warm wouldn't be a problem in Jorrvaskr, but feeling safe was something else. He would have to live with the awkwardness of a stranger snuggled against his leg. At least this way she stayed calm, and Vilkas could turn to his reading.

He smelled Farkas long before he heard him enter their shared hallway.

* * *

Farkas opened his door with caution. He had no idea how lightly their guest might sleep and he didn't want to risk waking her. As it turned out, the door would be the least of his concerns.

When he closed it behind him, he looked to Vilkas for any changes in the situation.

“Finally,” Vilkas said and put the book on the end table. “Took you long enough.”

Farkas grinned. “There was a lot of road stuck to my hide. And I've a lot of hide.”

Vilkas shook his head, but Farkas saw a hint of a laugh in his eyes.

“Besides,” he continued, “be glad we weren't washing our hide off of the road.”

That got him laughing. Briefly anyway.

“Really, how long did you think about that one?”

Farkas shrugged. He'd thought of it during his bath. He didn't need to tell his brother that, he always knew anyway. “Soap's all yours.”

That got a genuine smile out of his surly twin. Not enough of those lately. This was the first since – Farkas had to think for a moment – since before they had agreed with Kodlak to not transform again. And now they had, and... Vilkas was smiling? Kodlak had said it was bad for the soul, but that's not what it looked like where he was standing. Farkas couldn't explain it. He probably shouldn't try. He was never any good with that.

“Music to my ears,” Vilkas said and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Immediately the woman next to him reacted. She slung an arm across his torso; clumsily, blindly, still sleeping. Her fingers twitching and grabbing for something, obviously not satisfied with the cloth of his brother's shirt. Vilkas rolled his eyes and turned slightly towards her instead, and with his right hand on her left shoulder gently pushed her away and back down on the bed.

He didn't have time to let go, before her left hand had found its way inside his shirt and grabbed a solid hold of his chest hair. Not that Farkas could see that happen, but the grimace on his brother's face told him everything he needed to know. He smirked. “You move fast, brother. Good to know you still can-”

“Shut up, and come and take my place,” Vilkas interrupted him through clenched teeth. Farkas didn't stop grinning. This day was getting better by the hour.

“Really, Vilkas, if you wanted to be alone with her...” He let the suggestion hang in the air.

“What I want is a bath, brother.” The way he sneered the last word, told Farkas he probably shouldn't push it any further. He joined the two of them.

As Farkas managed to dislodge the sleeping Nord's grip – and what a grip it was – on his brother by transferring it to his own hand, he decided to risk it anyway and teased: “I haven't seen a woman paw you like that since-”

“Don't say it,” Vilkas warned. “I don't want to hear it.” He exhaled slowly. Tense. That bath would probably do him good. “Besides, she's asleep. Probably thinks I'm someone else. Someone she actually knows.” He left the room without another word, leaving Farkas to watch over the sleeping woman.

Farkas lay down and pondered the situation, while letting the woman curl up aganst his side. As long as they didn't attempt to leave her, it seemed she was content to just rest. Well, he was due a nice long nap in a real bed anyway, so that he could manage. Now he just wished he knew what to do about Vilkas.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, this one ran away from me and became longer than I intended. They had more they wanted to say than I had planned for.  
> Maybe it's because I'm ill with a cold and a fever and funny things are happening in my head.

“Hey, hey, relax. You're safe. Easy now.”

The big man slowly got up from the floor, showing her the open palms of his hands. Frida eyed him with distrust. With someone of his size she'd need more than words to believe herself safe. Even if he smelled safe. She mentally shook herself. That was nonsense. Smelling safe. Had he hit her over the head? If that was the case she'd certainly had her revenge. A black and blue shade was spreading around his right eye and cheek bone. Served him right for getting in bed with her without her leave.

He prodded the bruise and winced. “Damn, lady, that was nice legwork.”

Frida stilled her thoughts in surprise. “You're complimenting me for kicking you in the face?”

He smiled and winced again, then smiled with only the left side of his mouth. “It was a good kick. Well placed. Name's Farkas. It's good you're up. Don't startle. My brother's gonna come through that door in a moment. We mean you no harm, I promise.”

She was still skeptical, but true to his word, the door opened to reveal another man who looked almost exactly like this Farkas. The brother-part of his statement seemed true enough. Not that they could have hidden it had they tried. The only difference between them seemed to be that the new arrival was slightly leaner than Farkas and kept his hair slightly shorter.

She crossed her arms defiantly. “Twins?”

Farkas nodded. His brother seemed to take it in stride.

“I'm Vilkas.” He glanced at Farkas' face. “You two have been getting acquainted, I see. How are you feeling?”

That was not the question she had expected. She glanced between the brothers. “Confused, mostly. And tired. Where am I?”

“Jorrvaskr,” said Farkas.

“Whiterun,” said his brother at the same time.

Frida's head spun. “Whiterun? But how? I was in... in Falkreath. How did I get here?”

“We carried you,” Farkas said simply. “But not from Falkreath.”

“What? Where then?” A buzzing in her ears kept getting louder, and she shook her head to dislodge it. If only her head would stop spinning.

Vilkas was the one to answer this time. “An old ruin in The Rift. You were in a bad way, when we found you. So we brought you here.”

“A... bad...” she sat down on the bed, but found herself on the floor instead. The floor was tilting oddly. Her throat was dry. Her wrists hurt. Her skin burned. Strong hands were on her shoulders. Lifting her, guiding her up on the bed.

“Here. Sit. Relax. You're safe.” Whose was that voice?

She felt someone beside her. Her vision swam. Then there was an arm around her. He smelled safe.

“I'll go get her some food. Something solid now, I think.”

* * *

When Farkas returned from the kitchens he stopped outside the door and listened for activity inside. Vilkas was murmuring reassurances about her safety. He rapped lightly on the door before entering.

The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Vilkas was on her left, with a hand rubbing soothingly along her spine and looking mightly uncomfortable with it.

Farkas knelt in front of her, trying to place himself in her line of sight. “Here. Steaming stew and freshly seared salmon. Should do you good. Eat up.” He held the plate with the salmon out to her.

She lifted her head. He could tell she had trouble focusing. Her eyes were far away. He moved the plate slightly, prompting her to take note of it. Slowly her gaze came to rest on the fish in front of her. Her nostrils flared and her hands shook, when she picked up the filet. He and Vilkas both let out a sigh of relief, when she started picking it apart and eating it.

Farkas sat back on his haunches, giving her space. Vilkas, too, had removed his hand from her back and inched away from her. She was eating solid food on her own now, and that was a huge improvement, but they both knew that too many things at once could overburden the senses.

Eating seemed to bring her back to herself again. “No wonder you were dizzy. You've only had fluids for several days,” he commented as she finished off the last of the salmon and licked her fingers. She looked at them oddly, before turning her gaze to him.

“Days,” she repeated. The wary look was back on her face. “What happened to me?”

Farkas looked to his brother, who answered. “We don't know all of it, but we will tell you what we do know. Finish the stew as well and then we'll talk.”

She had turned her head to look at Vilkas as he spoke to her, sitting up straighter in the process. When she wasn't sagging with exhaustion, Farkas was fairly certain she'd be nearly as tall as them. He smiled as he handed her the bowl of Tilma's thick elk meat stew. Life was returning to her features little by little, and as it did it revealed a woman he wouldn't mind looking at on the regular. He hoped staying would be a possibility for her.

* * *

Food made her feel better. Her stomach settled down and her mind cleared somewhat, even if she was still very confused. The two men, brothers, twins, had been friendly and nothing but respectful, putting her considerably more at ease as well. Now they were all seated on chairs around the end of the counter top across from the bed. Farkas, the bigger one, cracked open one of the kegs and poured two mugs of ale.

“Want one? Or too soon?” He asked her, waving an empty mug in her general direction.

Frida considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I doubt one will do me any harm. Not after all that food you made me eat.”

“That was the idea,” the man grinned back at her and poured a third mug. His eyes were kind.

The other one – Vilkas, she remembered – looked less kind and more worried. His brother had said days. And he had obviously meant while she was here with them. What about before? She tried to remember, but nothing between the Falkreath barracks and waking up next to Farkas manifested in her mind. It was unsettling, and she had the disctinct feeling that whatever was missing from her memory was nothing good.

These men seemed to mean well; to want to help her. One look at Farkas' face and she felt instantly guilty. “I'm sorry about... that.” She gestured at his bruised face.

He smiled at her and winked. “Don't worry about it. I've had worse. Usually not in bed, though.”

Frida laughed. “Usually? No, wait, I don't want to know.” She grimaced.

“Good choice,” Vilkas commented drily. “Now, can we talk as we agreed?”

Farkas rolled his eyes and Frida laughed again. She liked him. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I'm still a little... I don't know what to say.”

“You could start with your name...” Exasperation was evident in Vilkas' tone, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

“By the Divines! You shame me! My parents taught me better manners than that. I'm Frida Steel-Braid, at your service.” She looked down at the ale in her mug, hoping to find absolution for her poor manners somewhere in the amber liquid.

“Hey, no one's blaming you,” Farkas' voice sounded.

“Or shaming,” Vilkas added. “I meant nothing of the sort.”

She waved them off. “No, really. It's fine. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I didn't even think to introduce myself. I apologize.”

The look passing between the two men didn't escape her notice, but she couldn't decipher what it might mean. They both took long gulps from their mugs. It was Vilkas who spoke next.

“What **do** you remember? You mentioned Falkreath?”

“Yes, I live there,” Frida readily explained, seeing no harm in divulging that information. “I have for a little over a year now.”

“And what do you do?”

She shrugged. “Odd jobs. Menial labour. On market days and other busy times I help cook and serve in Dead Man's Drink, at other times I cook and clean in the barracks. Sometimes I help out at the lumber mill, though only when Bolund really needs the extra hands. He doesn't like me much.”

Farkas grunted. “Pretty sure you don't learn to put your foot through someone's face while swinging a broom or a ladle – or a saw for that matter. Where'd you learn that?”

Frida ducked her head and smiled apologetically. “The barracks. It was pretty soon after I arrived and got the job there. One soldier was hassling me and wouldn't take no for an answer, two others saw it and decided I needed some training. So I've been learning to fight with sword and shield as well as without.”

They both smiled knowingly at her. “Makes sense,” Vilkas declared. “So, any idea how you came to The Rift?”

Frida frowned and thought hard about it but came up with nothing. She shook her head slowly. “I don't recall having had a reason to go there. I was building a life for myself in Falkreath. It wasn't much, but at least I was back where I belonged.”

“What do you mean?” Farkas asked curiously.

“I mean, I was born in Cyrodiil,” she explained.

“So that explains your accent,” Vilkas commented.

“Yes, I suppose it would. My parents left Skyrim to fight in the war. They met during that time. They came from different places in Skyrim and decided that they could just as well settle and build a family in Cyrodiil. I grew up in Anvil, by the sea.”

“And now you've come to Skyrim,” Farkas stated. “Why? To fight in the war?”

She shook her head. “No, my parents did enough of that for several generations, I think. No, I've come because Cyrodiil is becoming unbearable to Nords. Too many see us all as probable Talos worshippers. They expect us to all know each other, and know about each other's religious practices, simply because we're Nords.” She rolled her eyes and was well aware that anger and frustration was more than slightly present in her tone.

Vilkas sighed. “I'm afraid things are going in that direction here as well.”

“But at least most people here are Nords. Nobody here expects me to know every Nord in Skyrim simply because I am one,” she shot back, and Vilkas chuckled quietly. “Besides, I'm not terribly devout anyway. Certainly not enough to risk my life over a religious matter.”

“Good to know.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that, but he revealed nothing. Glancing between them, Frida wondered which of them she should direct her question to, but decided it probably wouldn't matter anyway.

“So, you already told me your names, but who are you? And how did you find me in that ruin you mentioned?” The moment the question left her mouth pieces began clicking into place. “Wait. Whiterun. You said Jorrvaskr. That's that mead hall, right?” Farkas was smiling broadly at her. “I've heard of you. You're Companions! And you were clearing out a ruin.” They both nodded.

“Well, it seems you answered your own question. Is there another we can answer instead?” It was Vilkas, still, who led the conversation for the brothers.

“Well. Since I don't remember. Why were you clearing out that ruin? What was in there? Besides me, I mean.”

“You really don't remember a thing...”

Frida met his gaze, searching for something, any hint of anything. But he was looking searchingly back at her. Concerned. His eyes were the palest blue she'd ever seen. Like ice. Suddenly she saw steel bars between them. The fog of her mind shifted, and she lifted a hand in front of her face. It looked like it was supposed to. But it hadn't. Not when she saw his eyes. The floor came rushing up to meet her. She grasped for a hold of the bars, but found only empty air.

Warm hands settled her back on the chair and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders again. It smelled of ale. Frida winced as the sound of her now empty mug being placed on the countertop rang too loudly in her ears.

She looked at her hand again. Seeing it, but not really seeing it. She was barely able to whisper. “What happened to me? What did they do to me?”

* * *

Vilkas was worried. He was absolutely certain that Frida's confusion was genuine; that she might not know what she was – or at least didn't remember. He remembered well enough how disoriented he had been after his first transformation, but surely what he and Farkas had witnessed couldn't have been her first. Could it? Had the Silver Hand begun **making** werewolves, just to have something to experiment on? No, that was too outrageous even for them. But they might have found a werewolf and its victim, before the latter had been eaten.

He studied her, making no secret of doing so. She seemed almost frightened of the scrutiny and looked away, folding herself further into the blanket they had only partially saved from an ale-soaked fate, when she had suddenly collapsed again.

“Vilkas, why don't we just tell her all we know?”

He was tempted to let Farkas do just that, but her reaction just now couldn't go unaddressed. He held up a hand.

“Wait. Frida, what did you remember just now?”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes still far away. “I'm not sure. Your eyes. I think I saw them before. And my hand, looking strange. Monstrous. And there were bars, like in a jail cell. I don't know. It's not making much sense to me either. I'm sorry.”

Vilkas looked to his brother. “Oh, I think it makes more sense than you know,” he assured her. Hoping she would take it as a reassurance.

“Come on, Vil, she has a right to know,” Farkas insisted.

“She does, I agree. But with this reaction...” He turned his attention back to the woman, waiting until she looked at him again. Her eyes were cautious. He couldn't blame her. “We will tell you everything we know. As we promised. But I think we need to proceed slowly. To let your mind adjust and give it a chance at remembering on its own. If you would rather we tell you everything all at once, I suggest you go lie down on the bed first. Too many falls in one day will get to you.”

He didn't need to mention that should she choose the all-at-once option, he would much prefer for her to be prone, so they could more easily subdue her, should something trigger a transformation. She was a complete unknown, and he hated dealing with unknowns.

On the other side of the counter, his point, or some of it, had clearly dawned on Farkas. “Oh, that's actually a good idea. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.”

Frida smiled everso slightly at his brother and rubbed her left shoulder. “Bit too late for that, I'm afraid. But yes, I do understand.” She looked back at him again. “What do you suggest?”

Vilkas quickly formulated a strategy for how he would proceed with this. On one hand, he would have liked Kodlak to take charge of this, but on the other, the old man had given them the responsibility. They wouldn't disappoint. He would make sure of it. “I suggest starting from the beginning. Or at least where we think the beginning might be. Try and trace your movements, find out what happened when and where.”

Frida nodded. Slowly at first, then a bit more vigorously as she thought the idea through. “Yes. Makes sense. Getting things in the right order seems... uhhh right.” She stood up slightly and moved her chair closer to the counter, her movements still ungainly, though that could probably be explained by her being wrapped in that blanket. She must have seen the questioning look on his face. “Just wanted to be closer to something to lean on. Somehow I don't think I've remembered the worst just yet.” She sent him a bitter, lopsided smile made further crooked by the little scar in her lip. Then she looked at Farkas and pointed at her mug. “Would you risk me a refill? I think I might need it before we're done.”

His brother, ever the people person, grinned and poured with an “of course! And there's more where it came from. As much as you like.” Farkas might well be instrumental in keeping her balanced through all of this.

“Right,” he began, “you were in-”

Frida held up a hand to halt him. She took several hearty gulps of the ale, put the mug back on the counter, wiped her mouth and then turned her full attention to him. “Sorry. Don't wanna take another spill ale in hand. Waste of good drink.”

Farkas spluttered and laughed. “Hah! You're a Nord alright, woman. I like you!”

Frida's small smile came and went faster than lightning, and then she looked to him expectantly. Vilkas sighed. “You were in Falkreath. What's the last thing you remember?”

The vertical line between her brows deepened. “It's foggy...”

“Try anyway,” he prompted. “What's a likely thing you would have been doing?”

“Probably finishing my jobs at the barracks. Maybe training with Dagna and Hralmir.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yeah, training. That feels right.” She nodded with certainly.

Vilkas waited for her to continue. A brief glance at Farkas told him his brother was eager for the story.

“I think I would have headed home afterwards...” Frida trailed off. Her eyes taking on that distant look again. “No, that doesn't feel right. The woods... yes. The woods. I went into the woods.”

“At night? Why would you do that?” Farkas beat him to the question by a heartbeat.

“Because Zaria pays well for Torchbugs and other things found at night.” She paused and thought further on it. “Yes. I think that's what I did.” She looked at them both in turn. “Oh, you have no idea who Zaria is. Sorry. She's the Redguard who runs the alchemist in Falkreath. I rented a cot with her. That was home. And instead of going directly home, I would sometimes make a brief foray into the forest to get a few of the ingredients she often uses. Or sells. I don't care. She paid me for them.” Frida finished with a shrug.

It made sense to him. “So you were in the woods at night.”

“I don't think it was that late,” she protested weakly. She frowned again and grabbed the mug and downed some more gulps. “Maybe it was. I'm not sure it matters.”

She looked up at the ceiling, and Vilkas could almost see her retracing the steps she would have taken. She muttered under her breath. “the hill... no, but round the bend, and then... hmmm...” He let her take her time, and shared an amused grin with Farkas, wishing that the entire tale would be this simple and wholesome. Suddenly she stiffened.

“Something was there. Something. Big...”

Both he and Farkas unconsciously leaned forward on their chairs, partially for the story, partially to catch her should she panic again. The latter was becoming a real possibility, Vilkas could smell it. It was faint yet, but it was there.

Frida closed her eyes again. “It was fast. I heard something. Running. Through the underbrush. I drew my blade, the moment I heard it. But it was already there. My arm...” Her left hand came to rest on her right upper arm, rubbing slightly. She opened her eyes again, but they were unfocused. “It... bit me? I think I must have screamed at that. And then more noises, and there was a huge, clawed hand right over my face. And then it was gone again. I think.”

She held her left hand up in front of her face again, turning it back and forth, studying both sides of it. “My hand... when I saw it, and your eyes.” She caught Vilkas' stare. “My hand was like that hand. Its claws... what happened to me?”

Vilkas felt Farkas' eyes on him. He glanced at him and saw the question in his eyes. He nodded. Now that she remembered this much, they could probably tell her what that had been. It was clear enough.

Farkas reached out and grabbed the hand she was studying so intensely, allowing Vilkas to observe her reactions. She didn't even attempt to pull away from him, instead as he lowered her hand she just looked for and found his gaze. “Frida...” Farkas began.

“Hmm?” She sounded dazed.

“Sounds like you were bitten by a werewolf.”

“No...” the movement she made with her head started out as a shake but ended as a nod. Her lips parted slightly, shoulders sagging.

“Yeah, it does,” he insisted gently.

“It does...” She nodded again, slowly as if hypnotized. “So my hand... looking wrong. That's probably...” She raised it again and Farkas' with it, he didn't let go.

“That's probably because you became one, too,” Farkas confirmed for her.

“No...”

They both held their breath, expecting an outburst. Or a collapse. Anything really. Certainly not the mesmerized stare of a woman studying her own hand.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Ysmir's beard, woman! You said I could come in.” Vilkas turned his back to the naked woman in the tub. He heard Tilma chuckling behind him.

Frida's voice was somewhat distant when she answered him. “I did. And you can. You've seen me naked before. What's the problem?”

Tilma chimed in. “She's right, you know. Besides, you've no problem with it, when it comes to your Shield-Siblings.”

“No, of course not, but this is different,” he protested, though he did turn back to the two women. He and Farkas had rolled the big tub into Farkas' room and had lugged water in there, so Frida could wash up in private. Tilma, being the all-knowing, motherly care-taker of the lot of them had insisted she involve herself. There really was no way to deter the old woman, and Vilkas was grateful for it – most of the time. Right now it seemed Tilma was ganging up on him with Frida.

Frida was still sitting in the tub submerged to just below her shoulders. Tilma was busy at work untangling her matted hair. It was longer than he'd first thought, he absent-mindedly noted. The mats were giving her trouble, too, he could tell from the way Frida's head was moving to resist the pull of the wide-toothed comb. She didn't seem to pay it any mind, however, her eyes focused on something on her right arm.

Vilkas sighed. After she had recovered from her initial shock, they had told her about the place they had found her in, and what had happened after. She had taken it with surprising stoicism, all things considered. They had discussed that as well. He remembered very well how she had worded her thoughts on it. “It feels like it's just a story. Like it didn't happen to me. When I remember, no, **if** I remember, maybe it'll be different.” He hoped she could be convinced to stay, at least for some time; at least until her situation was stable.

Upon her puzzlement that they would take her in, knowing that she was a werewolf, they had told her about themselves and the Circle. That had definitely surprised her, and she had been visibly about to burst with questions, even Vilkas could tell, though that was usually his brother's strength: people. Instead she had quietly concluded: “That's why you smell like 'friends'.” Thinking about that, Vilkas was fairly confident she would stay for a while.

He went to the counter, so he would be in her line of sight, and put the stack of neatly folded clothes there. “Njada agreed to lend you some small-clothes, she's about your size. She didn't own a single dress, though, so I had to ask...” he trailed off, when he looked at Frida. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Oh, discovering scars I don't remember getting. But thanks.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and she didn't take her eyes off the leg she had raised out of the water, but he could tell she was unsettled. Mostly because he could smell it, despite the soap of the bath.

“Njada?” Tilma asked. “Njada showed a kinder side? She must be more curious about our new girl than I expected.”

Frida snorted. “It's been a few years since I was a girl, Tilma. But thanks. It's good to know, I keep well. Despite the scars.”

Tilma cackled cheerfully and sent him a meaningful look over Frida's shoulder. The old woman liked her. That was unmistakably a good sign.

“Well,” Vilkas admitted, “she did demand to meet you once you were dressed and able to talk. And she'll want them back, of course.”

Frida finally tore her eyes from the inspection of her skin and looked up at him with a grin. “I think, I can manage that. I expect I get to meet everyone here?”

That sounded promising. “You mean to stay, then?”

“Absolutely.” She sounded like there had been no real choice. “You've offered me help, a place to stay, and it's not like anyone else is likely to help me with this newly acquired problem of mine.”

“True,” he agreed, “but many choose to go it alone.”

Frida huffed slightly. “I imagine so. It's probably a difficult secret to hide. But I was never a loner. I like being around people. I think I'd go insane without company. And you're offering me a place, where I'll have company, and people to help me with my secret. It really wouldn't make any sense for me to reject that offer.”

When put like that Vilkas couldn't disagree with her.

“Besides,” she continued, “I don't know the first thing about werewolves. I'm counting on you and the others to help me with that.” He nodded readily. That was the general idea, after all. “But I do know about normal wolves. They always live in packs. A lone wolf is the most dangerous of them all, because it goes mad with loneliness and fear and will attack prey it wouldn't normally.” The look she sent him was intense. “I wonder if lone werewolves are mad, because they're werewolves or because they're alone. Let's just say I'm not willing to test it myself.”

Vilkas made a mental note to get Kodlak to talk to her. This woman did not waste time with trivial matters. Fresh eyes on the problem their Harbinger was working on might not be a bad thing.

* * *

Kodlak considered Vilkas' advice carefully and nodded. “You may be right. I'll keep it in mind for when she's settled in.” Then he fixed the young werewolf with a stern glance. “You're a lot more tolerant of this one than you were of the last.”

Vilkas shrugged dismissively. “She's not an arrogant prat. That helps.” Kodlak chuckled and his protegé went on. “She sees... nuance. And I have this... gut feeling. You know?”

He nodded and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “I know. Rest easy, Vilkas. I trust your judgment with this one.” The man's judgment had certainly been better than his own concerning the Dragonborn. Kodlak had still to figure out how his dream should be interpreted with the turn events had taken, but that was his problem to sort out. As it were, he would also have to revise his concerns about Vilkas' fiery temper. Temper or no, he had shown remarkable restraint recently, and this despite the boys having transformed when they cleared out that Silver Hand hide-out. He might disapprove, but the choice was still theirs to make.

The others had already headed inside for dinner and Kodlak looked to Vilkas trying to discern whether there was more on his mind. If that were the case it wasn't something the younger man wanted to share just yet, because he turned towards the hall with a nod.

When they got inside, the conversation was already a blur of voices. It didn't escape Kodlak's notice that Frida had placed herself by Farkas' side at the table and was currently smiling, nodding and greeting everyone in turn. He stopped to watch for a moment. He would have expected anyone to be overwhelmed by the attention, but if she were, she certainly handled it in stride; seemed to enjoy herself. Even Skjor cracked a smile at something she said.

“See what I mean?” Vilkas asked him. “She's really something.”

Kodlak could only agree. “Farkas has noticed that as well. He's quite fond of her already.”

Vilkas grinned. “She did kick him in the face. He respects that in a woman. Even if the black eye meant taking some ribbing from Njada and Torvar.”

He had to laugh at that, and in doing so Kodlak marvelled at how much the addition of one person could change the mood of an entire mead hall. They walked to the table where the Companions were gathering for the evening meal, just in time to hear Njada state loudly: “Anyone who can take down Farkas unarmed and unarmoured has my vote.”

“No votes are being cast, and you don't have one anyway,” Skjor commented mildly. Far more mildly than he would have any of the other whelps. None of the others had noticed it, he was certain, but Kodlak knew Skjor had soft spot for Njada. How it could pass anyone by was a mystery to him, though, because it was clearly mutual. Since arriving she had even taken to wearing Skjor's double lines on her cheek bones. She idolized the man, and the old war dog was clearly aware of it. Kodlak smiled to himself. It was good to see that something – or someone – could get to the grizzled veteran.

“Wait, voting? About what?” Frida asked in confusion.

“About you joining the Companions of course.” Njada explained.

“What? But I'm not... I wasn't intending to...” Frida looked to Farkas for help.

He laughed and clapped her on the back. “Relax. Nothing's decided yet.”

Njada, true to form, wasn't about to leave it alone. “You don't intend to join us? Then what **are** you doing here?”

Frida glanced quickly at Farkas before answering: “Well, that whole mess Farkas and Vilkas found me in. It left a bunch of questions unanswered. A huge bunch, actually. And while we... well, they continue investigating, it'd be more expedient if I stay here rather than return to Falkreath Hold.” Kodlak was impressed. She certainly knew how to word things carefully. And not a single lie had been necessary. Vilkas' recommendation seemed to hold true. Perhaps she was the right person to discuss his concerns with, even if she was a recent addition to their odd little pack.

The otherwise dour Njada nodded. “I see, but why wouldn't you want to join? You look like a fighter, and since you're here anyway...” she let the suggestion hang.

Frida smiled. “Coming from a Companion, I'll take that as a compliment. But I'm really not. I can defend myself with shield and blade-”

“And foot!” Torvar coughed from the side-lines, making everyone laugh uproariously. Farkas, too.

Kodlak and Vilkas sat down. “There's more to being a fighter than whether or not you have the training already,” he told Frida, ignoring Torvar's muttered 'here we go again'. “It's about having the heart. And I think we can safely say that you have that.”

“As Farkas' eye be our witness!” Torvar cheered and raised his tankard.

Frida leaned towards Farkas, and through the cheers and laughter Kodlak could make out her saying “Neither of us is ever going to live that down, are we?”

“No,” Farkas confirmed for her with a calm smile. “Better get used to it. I have.”

As they all started in on their meal, conversation became more fragmented, and Kodlak had time to appreciate the break. Having taken more time to train with the whelps the past week, he felt the pains and aches of age more acutely than ever. He knew he couldn't put off his puzzle for too long.

The front doors opened. Ria and Aela stepped inside, stomping their feet. “Urgh, I really don't like this time of year,” Ria grumbled good-naturedly. They both shed cloaks dripping with sleet. “Give me proper snow, or give me summer. This inbetween nonsense is just... ugh.”

Aela sniggered next to her. “It does get a bit wet.”

“Oh well, warm hearth, strong ale, and good friends help, at least.” Ria turned her attention to those gathered at the table. Kodlak could see the moment she noticed Frida. “Oh, you're up!” She walked over.

Frida for her part had been watching in quiet bemusement as the young Imperial made her entrance. She made to get up and greet her, but Ria stopped her with a gesture. “No, no, don't. Heard you'd had a rough time of it.” She put a hand on Vilkas' shoulder as she leaned over the table to shake Frida's hand. “So you're the one the twins have been keeping to themselves. Glad to see you're out and about. Maybe now I get to go fight aside Vilkas again, hm?” The man in question smiled and nodded.

Frida's eyes darted between them. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you from-”

Ria waved her off. “I didn't mean it like that. It's good you're alright. I'm Ria.”

Frida choked on her ale and coughed. “What?”

The Imperial stiffened. “What?”

“Ria? You said your name is Ria?”

“Uh, yeah. Something wrong? Have we met?”

“No, no, just... a ghost from the past. I had a friend called Ria once.”

“Oh, funny coincidence. Let me just get a plate of food, and then you can tell me about her.”

The sorrowful look that passed over the Nord's face went unnoticed by Ria, who had already turned her back looking for a clean plate and a meal of her own. Farkas apparently saw it, much to Kodlak's relief, because he was quick to butt in and direct the questioning elsewhere.

“So... Steelbraid, huh? Bet there's a story behind that name. Doesn't sound like a family name.”

The look of gratitude in the woman's eyes was unmistakable. Kodlak once more reminded himself to never again underestimate the reputedly 'slower' of the twins. Surprise must have shown on his face, because when he next looked at Vilkas, the boy was smirking knowingly at him. Vilkas who was always quick to state that Farkas' brains weren't his strongest suit. He almost had to keep himself from laughing. Those two were a menace, when working together, and they seemingly put in an effort to keep everyone thinking Farkas was dumb as a post. He began to ponder whether the Harbinger position could be held by two people in unison.

Murmurs around the table told him that they hadn't mentioned Frida's last name to anyone else before this. All agreed that they wanted to hear that story.

Their guest decided to indulge them, and from her expression it was plain to see that it wasn't a story she minded telling. As surprises go, having to compliment and congratulate Farkas for his peace-keeping efforts was an interesting and welcome one, Kodlak decided.

“Alright, alright. Let me just have another ale.” Torvar was quick to send a tankard in Frida's direction. “It'll be nothing spectacular for the likes of you, I'm sure, but for a little town built around a lumber mill it took people by surprise.”

“A lumber mill?” Vilkas questioned. Trust him to be the one with an eye for facts. “I thought you said you grew up in Anvil?”

She nodded. “I did. I was born there. When I was about ten or eleven we went North. Up to the forests around Chorrol, where we settled. The name came along some years later. I must have been fourteen or so. You know, about that time when girls develop the kind of shapes that boys and men notice. Well, Nord and Imperial women do, anyway.”

Knowing smiles and good-natured elbowing each other all around the table, none of it disrespectful, Kodlak noted.

“Now, the boys I could handle. We were roughly the same size anyway, and being the same age we were equally inexperienced. Guess that's one way to learn to brawl.” She shrugged and smiled that lop-sided smile of hers. “And that taught them to stop well enough.”

“The men, on the other hand, bigger than me and most of them used to heavy work at the lumber mill.” She sighed. “The boys thought it was mighty funny to yank my braid. Nothing new there. Boys had been doing that since we were children – just for fun, you know,” Frida said with a roll of her eyes. Njada snorted at her end of the table. “But the boys got the message better than the men and the third time a grown man grabbed my braid and attempted to manhandle me, I decided enough was enough.”

“I had an idea, and the next time we travelled into Chorrol, I went shopping for razor blades. It took me ages to get my idea to finally work, but I finally managed to attach the blades to a band I braided into my hair. And it took another age or two to get it braided so they couldn't be seen in my braid. And then I went about my business as usual.”

“Oh, that is crafty,” Athis commented. “I like where this is going. Smells like just come-uppance.”

She nodded in agreement. “I certainly thought so at the time. It's not like this happened all the time. I just didn't feel like waiting until one of them actually managed to overpower me and take what they wanted. Eventually it was put to the test. It was during one of the many festivals – I forget which one. It's not important. And sure enough, on the edge of the crowd, one of my father's colleagues from the mill grabbed a hold of my braid, right here,” she demonstrated, by fisting her braid where it sat on her head. “His other hand went straight for my tits, but I pulled my head away from him.”

Athis' low menacing chuckle could be heard, when Frida paused for effect. The dunmer had clearly already visualized what the results had been. Kodlak had always been a little wary of that one's blood thirst.

“And then he started screaming a lot of creative things about my virtue or lack thereof, but at least he let go. And people came running, so I actually thought it was pretty embarrassing. Bit too much attention for my taste. The priests of Kynareth did attempt to heal him, but three of his fingers couldn't be properly attached, so at least he wouldn't be using them again.”

“Serves him right,” Farkas stated. “They shouldn't have bothered with the healing.”

“I hear that,” Athis agreed in a tone that left no room for mistakes. Yes, Kodlak concluded, gruff and bloodthirsty their bunch might be, but honour was important to all of them.

“Hmm, perhaps.” Frida didn't seem to allow their comments any effect on her telling of the story. Clearly it wasn't her first time. “Regardless. Didn't take long for people to figure out what had happened, nor how I had prepared for the eventuality. So I got the name, and it stuck.” She shrugged with a smug little smirk. “Can't say I mind much.”

Torvar looked at her with a somewhat worried glance when he said: “For an ice-breaker kind of name, I'm not sure the story breaks a lot of ice.”

Frida fixed him with a stern look that made Kodlak proud of the strength of Nord women. “Maybe it's not supposed to. Maybe I like to be the one to choose, rather than vye for someone else to choose me.”

That statement made Njada laugh long and loud. “You, I like. And I don't like a lot of people!”

“Believe me, we noticed. Hard not to,” Athis assured her, to everyone's amusement.

“Oh shut up, cotton-arm,” Njada shot back.

Skjor's long-suffering groan was lost in hoots and cheers from the others as Athis and Njada got up, prepared to start another of their brawls.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Black Friday we begin to go darker. Content warning for violence, torture and PTSD. I'll be updating tags accordingly.

 

Skjor and Njada finished up their routine and headed inside. The young woman kept him on his toes. He liked that. He liked her. She had been an accomplished fighter even before she joined, but her thirst for excellence had seen her learn incredibly fast, and though she tended to be gruff with everyone, she never hesitated to teach what she knew, either. Skjor was proud to call her Shield-Sister. Had been since she was accepted into the Companions.

“So what is it with you and Athis?”

Njada snorted and looked back at him, face perfectly blank and a challenge in her eyes. “What is it with you and Aela?”

He laughed. Yeah, he was definitely proud to call this one Shield-Sister. He would speak to Aela soon about maybe calling her more than that. “What have you heard?”

“Seen you two leave at night together. Beds not exciting enough anymore?”

“Observant,” he remarked. “But nothing going on between us. Neither of us sleep much, so we keep each other company on sleepless nights. What's your excuse for brawling with Athis all the time? Those aren't sleepless nights in the middle of the day.”

“Ysmir's beard, old man, no wonder you're good, when you're exchanging sleep for training.”

“Flattery to dodge a question is beneath you, little girl.”

She flashed him a cocky grin. “I don't dodge. I block and deflect.”

That had him laughing again. She kept him on his toes in several different ways.

“Don't worry. Aela denied it, too. I believe you. Just wanted to see your reaction.”

That puzzled him. The suspicion that had made him ask the question in the first place, filtered through and became something more. Before she turned from him in search of food and drink he clapped a hand on her shoulder and turned her back towards him.

“Kid, it's fine to like him. He's a Companion. That means everyone here already approves of him.”

Her expression revealed nothing, and she received his words with nothing more than a curt nod. Yeah, he'd definitely hit the nail on the head there. He sighed. Then his talk with Aela would have to be about the two of them rather than just Njada. He didn't know how he felt about that. Aela would have a better idea of Athis. Both of them favouring short and light weapons, she had spent far more time with the dark elf than he had. Good thing he'd need to talk to her anyway.

They would have to be careful though. With a new wolf under their roof – one whose self-control was yet unclear – they couldn't risk doing anything immediately. There'd be time to consider things thoroughly.

* * *

She screamed, when the blade sliced open her thigh.

“Somebody gag it!”

Rough hands grabbed her jaw and forced a wet rag into her mouth. Brown eyes looked into hers and a voice spoke to her. She wasn't sure what was said. The painful grip on her hair did nothing to distract from the searing pain in her right thigh.

The hand in her hair let go, and she let her head fall forwards. They had opened up her thigh lengthwise all the way to the bone and held the wound open with metal tools.

“And now the silver one.”

When they opened up her left thigh in the same fashion it was even worse. She watched with morbid fascination as her own blood welled up around the blade and the searing pain blurred her vision. The rag swallowed only whimpers now.

Her mouth was suddenly free again and a fluid was poured into it. She choked and gulped. The burning in her legs didn't stop. But it did lessen.

“So there is a difference in how it heals. Once more!”

The rag was stuffed into her mouth again. She felt the tip of a blade at her thigh again. Her mind went white.

* * *

Vilkas had barely fallen asleep, when he sensed the threat next to him. He sat up, and a vague memory of Farkas at the back of his mind had him brace for a foot to the face. The shoulder to his ribs that sent him and the attacker sprawling to the floor took him by surprise. It hurt, too. And then there were fingers around his throat. That woke him up properly. Frida was straddling him, the rage in her eyes unmistakable, and she was clearly bent on killing him.

He managed to dislodge one of her hands, and with some effort and considerable pain in his pummeled ribs, he flipped them both over. When suddenly she was the one being held down, her resistance became all the more ferocious. The beast in him noticed first. In her abject terror, she was about to transform. In the basement of Jorrvaskr. Shit.

The woman below him was snarling and growling like the beast that was currently fighting to take control. Vilkas sacrificed some skin on his left arm in order to grab her jaw rather than her hand. She tore into him, and he was glad they weren't the wolf's claws just yet. He leaned down to try and get her to look in his eyes, hoping it might ground her in some form of recognition. No luck. And then she slashed at his face, nearly taking his left eye. Her face started elongating into a muzzle. There was no way back now.

He pushed off of her, hurried to the door and locked it. That way neither of them would be able to open it with their beast claws. He was so glad they'd thought to reinforce that door. He hoped Farkas had removed all things important to him from his room. And then he allowed himself to transform as well.

The pain of the transformation was something he never got used to. The feeling of bones shifting and changing. His already bruised ribcage protested doubly this time, and a human groan morphed into a beastly snarl as the process completed. Just in time for the other wolf to jump at him, teeth coming for his throat; utterly maddened.

He could have bested her easily, when they were both in human form. His far greater experience as a fighter made it no real contest. There wasn't much meaning in that for wild beasts, however, and any werewolf would be a formidable opponent, new to the Blood or otherwise. In close quarters like this there weren't much room for strategy nor patience. His best bet was to hold her off, until the blood lust wore off and she turned back. His only real advantage was that his would probably last longer than hers. Probably. That was another thing they didn't know for sure. Seemed like he was the lucky one who got to test it.

A disadvantage that turned out far worse than he first anticipated was not wanting to harm her. She had no such compunctions in her current state of mind, and soon Vilkas found himself bleeding profusely from several deep gashes, while he had intentionally avoided injuring Frida in any signficant capacity. If he meant to last through this fight, he would need to change up his game.

It was a struggle to keep his own bloodlust at bay, but it did help that he kept thinking of her as part of his pack. Biting down on her right arm to the point just before bones crunched, flushed a fresh wave of guilt through his system. Her snarls didn't get any friendlier, but her aggression became somewhat tempered. He used the grip to throw her off balance, and then he was on her. With a werewolf's speed it was no easy matter to get behind her, but he had to. He had one option to subdue her without further injury to either of them. He had to get it right.

He turned his back to the slashing claws, when next she lunged at him. Then used her momentum to throw her and twist her onto her belly. He closed his teeth on the scruff of her neck in a solid hold and rested his entire weight on her. Her fur tickled his nostrils, her scent suddenly sending entirely different suggestions to his beast blood. He pushed those notions deep down to the back of his mind. He just needed her calm, like any other whelp acting out. At least it worked.

It took a long while, before she reverted to human form. Vilkas let go of her neck, but he hadn't the strength to roll fully off of her. He was still bleeding, as was she, and neither of them had fed on anything at all. Shit this was not a good outcome. They should have forced the issue sooner and done so in the Underforge. Not wait it out in the living quarters. So stupid...

* * *

Farkas and Aela stood outside the door. Waiting. Listening. Sniffing. When they heard a groan that was irrefutably Vilkas' human voice, they unlocked the door and went in. It was carnage. It looked like Kyne herself had unleashed all of her stormy rage on Farkas' poor unsuspecting room. The stench of blood and rage was so thick it could be cut with a knife. They closed the door behind them.

Pushed against the far wall were the two werewolves now back in human form. Vilkas lying partially on top of Frida, blood still oozing from several deep gashes in his back and arms. They hurried to his side. Farkas was about to pull his brother away from the woman, when Aela halted him with a hand on his arm. She sniffed and raised an eyebrow. He followed suit and couldn't help the grin.

“Doesn't smell like it actually happened,” Aela remarked drily.

“No, but at least one of them wanted it to,” he pointed out, sniffed again and corrected himself. “Both of them.”

“Let's get a healing potion in him. She wasn't holding anything back.” Farkas heard the concern in the Huntress' voice, and though he had more faith in his brother's resilience he did roll Vilkas over. The man's chest didn't look any better. Farkas caught Aela's gaze. He could tell she was thinking the same thing. They might need to take Vilkas hunting as soon as he was able to transform again, a fresh kill would do far more for him than a healing potion.

A sleepy moan from the woman drew their attention to her. She was stirring, and moments later she attempted to raise herself up on her arms. The movement was ungainly. She had to cradle her right arm to her chest. It, too, was still bleeding. Frida's eyes fell to first Aela who busily checked her wound, then Farkas, who sent her a comforting grin – he hoped – and then to the still unconscious Vilkas next to her. Her sleep-addled grimace of confusion turned to one of horror.

Eyes wide she covered her mouth with a hand. “Is he...? Did I...?”

“He'll be fine eventually,” Farkas reassured her, hoping he was right. “And yeah, you did.” He didn't want to lie either. He liked Frida well enough, but he liked his brother better; especially alive.

“Get Skjor, then take him to the Underforge,” Aela ordered. “It's not a bed he needs right now.”

Farkas knew she was right, and he needed help making sure no one would see them. He was glad Athis and Ria were off on a contract. Torvar had hopefully been too drunk to notice anything anyway. Njada was a different story. He was fairly certain she was beginning to suspect something. It couldn't be helped – at least not right now. He got up and went to wake up the older warrior. Not that he expected to have to. The man had probably heard everything and was just waiting for news. The good thing about Skjor was you could always trust him not to crowd you.

He didn't have to knock. Skjor opened his door, clad only in breeches, when Farkas stood in front of it. “Bad?”

“Bad,” Farkas confirmed.

“How bad?”

“We keep him alive and asleep until he can transform again. Then we go hunting.”

Skjor muttered a long string of curses under his breath only about a dozen of which Farkas had heard before. They hurried across the hall. Farkas caught a glimpse of a sad looking Kodlak leaning against the door jamb of his room.

Aela opted to stay with Frida, who, though she wasn't as badly wounded, definitely was not in great condition either. She was staring into the distance looking almost as catatonic as when they'd told her she was werewolf. There was some detail that was off.

Skjor left to make sure the way was clear, and Farkas scooped Vilkas up in his arms. Aela held the door for him. And then he realised.

“Aela. Find out why she's rubbing her thighs like that. That's a new mannerism. Maybe she's remembered something. Might help to know.”

Her eyebrows shot up. He really hated how even people who knew better kept being surprised, whenever he pointed something out. “Good catch. I'll see if she wants to talk.”

“Good.” He turned to go, but turned back again. “And be nice. It's not her fault.”

The angry look on her face told him she didn't fully agree with him on that, but at least she nodded curtly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have figured out, I'm also looking to explore the dynamics between established Companion characters. If you have any situations or any character interactions you'd like to see my take on in the context of this story, feel free to ask and suggest.
> 
> I already know where this thing is going to end, and the major plot hooks are determined, but all the interesting people-stuff around it I'll take suggestions for and see if I can work it in here :-)


	6. Chapter 6

Kodlak had not even made it all the way to Farkas' room before Aela headed him off.

“Don't you dare come pretend you have any relevant wisdom to share now. Stay out of it,” she hissed at him.

“Peace, Sister. I came to help. What can I do?”

Aela opened her mouth and shut it again obviously not wanting to voice the first thing she thought of. “Sit with her, while I get bandages.”

He nodded his assent and Aela took off, though she looked no less angry.

Kodlak had heard the whole thing, but he was still taken aback by the amount of blood dripped and spattered about the room; most of it the boy's. Too much. Worryingly much. Frida was leaning against the far wall, amidst the splintered remains of shelves and a chair; utterly forlorn. Her only injury appeared to be her arm. Kodlak went and sat down next to her, putting an arm around her and pulling her in to lean against him. She was reluctant at first, but eventually allowed it.

Aela returned with a healing potion and bandages and got to work on wrapping Frida's arm. She didn't so much as glance at him. “Let's get her to bed.”

“She can have mine,” Kodlak offered.

“No. She stays behind this door. It's reinforced.” Frida winced next to him.

“I'm sure it won't happen again,” he objected.

“But you don't know that,” Aela reminded him, “and until she's fit to tell us what happened, you can be as sure as you like. I'm not risking anyone else's lives. She stays here. You can keep her company if you like, but this door stays locked with her behind it.”

* * *

Farkas was sticky with his brother's blood. The wounds had stopped oozing with the last healing potion Skjor had poured into him, but the blood loss was massive. He leaned back against the stone walls of the Underforge, taking solace in their solidity. He shifted Vilkas to lean against his chest. Nord or not, with blood loss this scale, he would be cold. Farkas could feel the shivers running through his body already.

Skjor threw a blanket over the both of them where they sat and continued his pacing.

“He'll make it,” Farkas said, partially to reassure himself. Vilkas' clammy skin didn't instill much optimism.

“'course he will,” Skjor replied gruffly, “he's a tough bastard.”

Farkas rested his nose in Vilkas' hair and breathed in his familiar scent. Even with blood mingling in it, it felt comforting. He hoped the feel of his own warm breath on his skin brought the unconscious man some comfort in return.

Now they could only wait.

* * *

Kodlak went to the sleeping Frida, still tossing and turning on the remains of Farkas' bed. He wanted to comfort the distressed woman, but Aela held him back.

“Don't. She might think you a threat. We don't want a repeat of this.”

“A day hasn't passed yet,” he reminded her.

“It's also not a full moon, Harbinger.”

* * *

Skjor had sat down next to them. Currently with a hand resting on Vilkas' forehead and a deep frown on his own. “Feverish.”

“I know.” He tightened his hold on his brother a little more. It wouldn't be long now. A few hours at the most. It felt like days – weeks even – since he and Aela had opened his door to come to Vilkas' aid.

“When we're out, we try and lead him North.” Skjor wiped off droplets of sweat from Vilkas' brow, whenever they threatened to creep into his eyes. “If we can.”

“What's North?” Farkas asked. He didn't keep track of Whiterun's environs as closely as Skjor and Aela did. “Halted Stream?”

“The same,” Skjor confirmed, lifting one of Vilkas' eyelids to check his condition again. “Dammit. Still unconscious. I hope we can even get him to change.”

“Leave that to me,” Farkas told their old friend. “I know what makes him tick. What's at Halted Stream? Thought we cleared it some months back.”

“New tenants. Bandits. But of the interesting sort that have at least two necromancers with them. He shouldn't feel too guilty about eating those.”

Farkas looked long and hard at the one-eyed warrior next to them. For all of Kodlak's outspoken disapproval of Skjor and Aela's forays enjoying their moonblooded nature, they showed no less respect for his and Vilkas' choices. It made Farkas want to apologise on Kodlak's behalf, but he also felt for the old man's predicament. He was sad and desperate, and Farkas could understand those feelings.

* * *

Aela had managed the daily comings and goings in Jorrvaskr, and now she was looking at him again, judgment cold and harsh in her eyes. “I don't think I've ever seen a transformation that painful. Not even among first-timers.” It was clear that the woman before him longed to run with her pack at this time. Instead she was here with someone who had done harm to her pack. He couldn't quite tell whether that someone truly was himself or Frida.

Kodlak nodded gravely and looked to sleeping woman. “She probably has.”

Aela nodded as well. “All the more reason to make a real effort at finding out what's up with her.”

She was right. He knew it. “But I won't force her. She has a choice.”

“Does she? Does she really, Kodlak?” Aela's angry hiss would have pulverized the bones of lesser men, he was sure. “Do you know, who her forebear is, then?”

Again the Huntress before him was right. He closed his eyes and sighed. “No,” he admitted to her.

“Thought so. The rest of **had** a choice. We made a choice. And we live with it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Some of us do, anyway.”

The barb was well-placed. They had all been given a choice. Had taken the moonblood willingly. No one was forced into the Circle. But choices made in the foolishness of youth... they felt less free when the years rolled around.

Youthful arrogance or not there had still been a choice. Frida had nothing of the sort. A bite. Enough saliva in her bloodstream. There would have been nothing she could have done. Unlike them. Unlike him.

* * *

He snapped at his brother's heels, urging him on, despite the clumsy edge to the other wolf's leaps and bounds. Skjor was in the lead, stopping once in a while to make sure they were still following. It was a quick run to Halted Stream, luckily. Soon the sweet, musty smell of fresh blood assaulted his nose. Seconds later they caught up to where Skjor had ripped the throat out of the first sentry. He dropped the body allowing Vilkas to feed on it, then leaped onwards towards the next. Farkas did likewise, not waiting for Vilkas to finish. Now that they were here, his brother wouldn't stray from where the food was. Two werewolves, two guards, terrible odds, Farkas mused as the sweet, coppery liquid washed over his tongue. It warmed him from the inside, made him feel just a little bit more alive, as the human's blood became his. He ate that one. There'd be plenty more for his brother.

An arrow nicked his flank. He looked up in the direction it had come. Vilkas was sprinting in that direction already. He barely caught sight of the archer, before his brother was on him with a snarl and wet sounds of claws tearing into flesh.

Then the red glow of magic alerted him to the presence of one of the mages. A dunmer. She had only just crawled out of her tent and clearly wasted no time getting involved. She was looking in Vilkas' direction. Of course, he'd just carelessly bounded straight through the camp to get to the archer. Farkas' running leap landed him directly on the mages shoulders. He felt and heard the satisfying crunch of bones as she toppled forwards and went down beneath him. A quick bit broke her neck. He left her for Vilkas.

Farkas startled, when a sickly purple glow surrounded him, no, the body beneath him. It quickly winked out, and when he found the source, he also found Skjor tearing another necromancer limb from limb. Good. Bodies were no good for feeding if they turned to ash. Vilkas returned to the centre of the camp and with a swing of his head, Skjor threw the necromancer's remains at him.

Farkas turned to his next kill.

* * *

“You're right,” Kodlak conceded. “I'll talk to her, when she wakes up, so she consider her options.”

Aela snorted. “And fill her with lies and false hopes? What options? She's a werewolf. No two ways about it.”

“But it is her choice what she does about it...”

“Does about...?” Her angry glare was directed fully at him. “Kodlak, she is not one of the Circle. She does not have the options we do. Her nature will be ruled by Masser and Secunda, no matter what she does about any of it.” She sneered the last few words as she quoted him.

He nodded. Unfortunately that was the fate of most werewolves. “But there is hope. If I find the cure, we may be abl-”

“To Oblivion with your cure, old man. You're not looking for a cure, you're looking for a way out of the deal, made on behalf of the Circle all those years ago. It will apply to you, maybe to the rest of us, but certainly not to her!”

“But we must at least try to help her,” he insisted.

“I agree. But I suggest we help her live as a werewolf, since that it what she is, rather than fill her head with fool's hopes and pretty lies, like you have with the twins.”

Kodlak bristled and stood up.. His hopes might be slim, but he hadn't lied to them. He allowed his anger to seep through his tone as he advanced on the Huntress. “That is quite enough, Sister, you forget yourself. I have not lied! Never!”

Aela for her part was unimpressed. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared defiantly. “Oh really? 'Bad for the soul?' That sound familiar?”

It did and he nodded, waiting for her to explain herself.

“Telling Farkas it's bad for the soul to transform? Like one transformation more or less is going to make him more or less a werewolf.” She was close to growling at him now. “He is one, whether he transforms or not! Don't you see that?”

He didn't. “Every time we give in to the beast, we give it more power over us, Aela. We lose a little more of ourselves! I fear it is you, who do not see that.”

She smirked. “Oh, I see it, Kodlak. I see the Beast for what it is. It is a part of me. I don't lose myself to it. I can't. It **is** me, and I am it. There's no tug-of-war that can be won or lost. There is just me, moonborn human, huntress.”

Sadness overwhelmed him. “Then I fear you are already lost.”

“Don't fear it,” she told him matter-of-factly. “I chose it. I am, what I am. Your concern with everyone's souls is presumptious at best, Harbinger.”

“But never seeing Sovngaarde, Shor's Hall, meeting the heroes of old. Does that mean nothing to you?” He was at a loss. How could she so readily dismiss her chances at an afterlife with her people?

She merely shrugged. “Sitting in a hall, drinking and eating for the rest of eternity, doesn't actually sound appealing to me. Why would I need to listen to stories and the wisdom of old heroes, when I won't need that wisdom for anything? I'll be in the after-life. No more heroics. I am a hunter, like my mother before me, and like her mother before her. Hircine's Hunting Grounds sound like much more fun to my ears.”

Kodlak had a hard time wrapping his mind around it. It was the first time he had bothered discussing it with Aela, choosing primarily to speak to Skjor about it. He saw now that Aela had put far more thought into it than the old veteran, far more than he would have ever suspected. And he despaired, for he had no more arguments.

“Knowing I might see you all again, made my approaching end seem less bitter,” he finally admitted with a sigh.

“That is your need, Kodlak, not mine. If you desire our company so, then perhaps shutting yourself in your room is the wrong way to go about it.”

* * *

There had been enough people in the camp for all three of them to gorge themselves, and when they loped back towards Whiterun and their secret passage to the Underforge Farkas felt heavy and drowsy. But it wouldn't do to fall asleep in the wilds this close to the city.

Once in the Underforge they collapsed in a heap. Farkas and Skjor protectively on either side of Vilkas, though he was fully healed now. Farkas nuzzled his neck and sighed contentedly. His brother would be fine. All would be well.

When they woke up, back in their human forms, groggy, disoriented and still feeling stuffed, they found that Vilkas had an impressive new set of scars for his collection, but was otherwise no worse for wear.

“How is Frida?” He asked them.

“Fine and still sleeping it off, when we set out,” Skjor told him.

“That's good.” Vilkas stated with relief, and Farkas had never been prouder to call the man his brother.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“I hope he's not being too hard on you, child.” The Harbinger looked at her with concern.

Frida shook her head. “No, sir. Not at all.” She liked the old man, but she just didn't understand, why he was worried. Skjor was helping her find focus and control, just as he had said he would. Kynareth knew she needed that.

“I'm glad to hear it.” Kodlak nodded and smiled, then gestured for her to sit. She did.

“He said you wanted to talk to me.”

Kodlak nodded. “Yes. It was actually Vilkas' suggestion that I do.”

“Vilkas?” Frida glanced out in the hallway, fearing the man would be out there. It was stupid. He wasn't even in Whiterun at the moment, but she couldn't help it. She was **not** ready to face him just yet. “Why?”

“Because he thought you might have valuable insights, child.”

“Huh?”

“You've made a good impression-”

Frida snorted self-deprecatingly. “I find that hard to believe.”

Kodlak looked at her, a sad look in his eyes. “Yes, you would. He doesn't blame you for what happened, you know.”

She shrugged. Of course the honourable people here wouldn't blame her for it. They would consider it beyond her control. That had become perfectly clear quite quickly after she'd awoken again. Herself on the other hand... yes, it had been beyond her control, but she hadn't exactly tried to achieve any control. Not until after she'd almost killed the man who'd saved her life. She had avoided him ever since.

“Is that what you wished to speak to me about?” She hoped not. She was working on it. Skjor was helping her, but she wasn't ready yet. If she was honest with herself, Frida wasn't sure she'd ever be ready to face Vilkas. She'd seen the wounds, she'd caused. They had both lain in a pool of his blood. She still felt it on her skin, and she couldn't wash the feeling off. She'd tried and rubbed her skin raw in the process.

Kodlak shook his head and reached for her hand. “Calmly now, child. You're not on trial. Nor will you be.”

But maybe she should be, Frida interjected in her mind. She didn't speak it aloud, though. She knew what he would tell her, and she knew she'd disagree. She waited for him to explain his purpose in calling her here.

* * *

“Just head over to the Hall. It'll be warm there, and we shouldn't be long,” Aela ordered.

Ria and Torvar looked at each other. “But why can't we just go with you? We can help.” It was Ria who suggested it, and even though Torvar had looked happy at the notion of a warm hearth and a hearty meal, he nodded in agreement with his Shield-Sister.

“Because a group of four isn't nearly as stealthy as the two of us,” Vilkas explained with greater patience than Aela could muster. “Even I'll only be there as back-up. Aela can probably handle it on her own.”

“Fine,” Ria grumbled. “Will you find us there, or do we meet here again in a day?”

Aela looked at Vilkas. Had they traveled with Skjor, she would have said to meet them in a day, and she and Skjor would have wiped out the entire Silver Hand hide-out. And enjoyed it. But it was Vilkas here with them, and he would have no real taste for that. “We'll find you there. It might be some hours, it might be a full day. Depends on how long it takes us to find a way in undetected.”

Vilkas nodded in agreement, and the two younger Companions set off towards the Hall of the Vigilant.

When they were out of sight, Aela turned back to him. “How do you want to do this?”

“Let's get there first,” he replied. “See what we're up against. Stealth would be nice. No need to announce to them that we're taking an interest in their plans, but if that's impossible...” He shrugged. “Then we leave no witnesses.” His dark look surprised Aela – probably more than it should have.

They set off in the direction of Fort Fellhammer, passing through the wilds rather than along the road. The snow lay thick this far North, and powdery streams of snow drifted along the surface between the trees, where the wind caught it. Looking down too intensely could almost make you lose your balance, because the ground itself seemed to be moving. As they walked, Aela stole glances at her Shield-Brother. He had changed. Again.

Before they reached their destination she had to ask. “Are you alright?”

He looked at her briefly. Surprised by her question. “Yes. Why?”

“You seem preoccupied.”

“A lot of things have happened lately.” So he didn't want to talk about it. Fair enough, she would back off.

“Should I be concerned for our mission?” She just needed to know whether she could count on him. Not the she was truly worried, but it was good to let him know she was aware.

He shook his head and smiled that tiny little smile reserved for his brothers and sisters in arms. “Don't worry, Sister. Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.” He looked ahead again and slowed slightly. “The prey approaches.”

“You're quoting khajiit mercenaries, now?” Aela laughed lightly.

“Why not?” His smile broadened slightly, before vanishing into a look of concentration.

They hid behind a fallen tree and took in the lay of the Fort.

“Wall's breached,” Vilkas noted quietly. “There's your way in.”

And from there she could probably creep along the wall without too much risk of discovery. She nodded with satisfaction. It would work. “If you hear sounds of battle, come join. I doubt you will.”

He confirmed the plan with a single nod, and she set off crouching low to the snowy ground. It was almost too easy. Clearly this wasn't where the Silver Hand housed their best and brightest, Aela thought with dismay. They might not find any information of value here after all.

The single look-out was primarily concerned with watching the road and hadn't noticed their approach at all. As soon as she was in the courtyard, that one wouldn't be a concern at all unless she announced her presence. Three more were gathered around a fire and were passing a flask around amongst themselves. She couldn't blame them – winter in Skyrim was a cold affair even for Nords – and as long as they stayed there, they wouldn't bother her.

She stayed low and easily found her way up on the battlements. She didn't like having to go up there. Much too exposed for her taste, but that was the only way to the section of the old Fort that appeared to be in use. Staying low she could remain mostly out of sight of the three in the courtyard, but if the look-out turned around, she would be lucky to slip behind a crate before he spotted her.

Progress was slow and it began snowing heavily. A blessing in disguise. Sounds were muffled, and she almost couldn't see where she was going. At least the same would be the case for the Silver Hand people. Soon she wouldn't need to worry about the look-out at all. She had almost made it to the door to the keep, when she heard the heavy thump of an armoured shoulder against wood followed by the creak of old hinges. There was nowhere to go but out.

Nord she might be, but hanging by her fingertips one the outside of the battlements of Fort Fellhammer was a mite too cold. She had jumped high so as not to create too many tracks in the snow atop the stone wall, but that had made it all the harder to get a grip on the edge to catch herself.

She couldn't hear whether there was anyone above her. Nothing. She had heard the door fall shut with a dull sound. She hoped the snowfall was heavy enough that her tracks would be sufficiently covered to not be seen unless searched for. If not, there was a good chance that she would be found, before she knew it. She was losing sensation in her fingers. Before long she would have to climb back up, whether or not someone might be waiting. Aela strained her ears, but the wind and snow blocked out everything.

Risks be damned, she had to get up there or she would eventually lose her grip. Hopefully Vilkas had thought to move closer, so he would hear it if she were discovered. Aela slowly pulled herself up and cautiously looked over the edge of the battlements. No one was there. Breathing a sigh of relief, she managed to drag herself over and onto the walkway again. There were no tracks left to be seen; neither hers nor the Silver Hand's. The tracks she just made on the wall on the other hand. She couldn't worry about those now.

Aela opened the door and crept inside. In here the creaking of the old door could be heard easily, and she cursed the high-pitched noise.

For good reason. From the next room a voice spoke: “Oh good, you're back. Everything alright out there?”

Damn these people to Oblivion and back. She could expect company. And she had finish this one off quickly, before he came to investigate and raised the alarm. She uttered a deep unintelligible grunt and stomped like she was shaking snow off her cloak. Those would be the sounds the man in there would probably expect to hear. She drew her daggers and noiselessly made her way across the room.

Trusting fool that he was, the Silver Hand lieutenant hadn't even turned to look at the associate he was expecting. He was perusing a map on the table, when she entered his room and planted both her daggers in his throat. He bled out on the map with a satisfying, wet gurgle. Not that she was listening for that. No, a quick search through the desk drawers and the book shelf revealed a journal that looked like it might yield some useful information. Aela would have checked to make sure, but since someone was expected back in here, she wanted to get out in a hurry. This would have to do.

Carefully opening the door, not knowing if someone was heading straight for it from the other side, Aela almost held her breath. No one. Not within visible range, anyway. She didn't want to risk running into him, so she made the jump over the wall – this time without an awkward stunt – just to land in a huge snow drift. The shock of the cold enveloping her knocked the breath from her lungs. She had to recover quickly. This was not the place for a rest. While it might take them longer than the other races, Nords could still freeze to death.

She dug her way out of the deep drift and disappeared into the forest. Now she just needed to circle back to where she'd left Vilkas. And then she might even consider spending a couple of hours among the Vigilants of Stendarr just to get warm again.

* * *

Ria and Torvar trudged through the snow. They both knew it would take them a couple of hours to get to the Hall of the Vigilant, so all they could do was think of the hot meal they could get there.

The snows got heavier extending their expected travel time by a few more hours, and so it was a considerable while after that the two of them finally spotted a thin column of smoke over the next ridge. The prospects of a warm hearth and a warm drink made them both laugh in relief. That relief was short-lived.

* * *

Kodlak finished his retelling of how The Companions had originally come to be werewolves, through Terryfyg's bargain with the Glenmoril witches and the subsequent curse. And how Kodlak now sought a cure, so he might enter Sovngaarde upon his passing. It was a lot to take in, so Frida remained silent for a long time. Kodlak didn't prompt her to speak.

Eventually she knew she would have to say something. “What is it you wish from me, Harbinger? I am hardly an expert in old lore, nor in religious practices.”

“Nothing specific, I assure you,” he told her. “But you've impressed more than one person here with the way you approach a problem to be solved, and so I would hear your thoughts on this.”

“I don't know. What's your approach so far?”

He looked at her and she felt like a child under his scrutiny. “I do not wish to push your thoughts in a specific direction, I would hear them uninfluenced by my own.”

She smiled. “I understand that, but I am no curse-breaker. I wouldn't know where to start. So please, what do you have?”

“Well,” he explained, “a curse can often be broken by killing the one who cast it...”

“But presumably the witches who did that are long dead, just like this Harbinger Terryfyg.”

“Precisely. The coven is still there. And there are still witches in it.”

The solution seemed obvious to Frida. She was sure she was missing some important piece, but since he had asked, she decided to voice her thoughts anyway: “You could renegotiate maybe?”

* * *

When they'd put sufficient distance between themselves and any potential pursuit from Fort Fellhammer, Aela called a stop. Vilkas' questioning look demanded an explanation.

“Before we go any further, I want to know if what I got was useful at all.”

“Of course. Let's have a look. Over here.” He led the way underneath a mountain fir, whose growth had created a little 'cave' inside it. They crept in there.

Aela knelt over her pack and suppressed a shiver. The dive into that drift had left her colder and wetter than she liked. A brief stay in the Hall might be good for more than just comfort. Vilkas moved up to her back, put his arms around her to share his warmth, and looked over her shoulder as she opened the journal. The intimate position suggested far more than existed between them, and she could hardly blame Njada for having thought there was something more between her and Skjor.

The truth was a lot plainer, of course. The tenderness of wolves just looked a lot different than that of people. A pack was a tight-knit family, and even when they were being careful, the intimacy shared in the Hunt was bound to bleed into their behaviour as people.

Aela cracked the book and quickly skimmed over the pages she'd seen before nabbing the volume. Just notes about werewolf sightings and slayings. She leafed further into it. Many months ago a report had come in with confirmation that there were werewolves among the Companions. A missive had been folded and stuck between the pages. She took it out, unfolded it and read. It was a report of the unit sent to Dustman's Cairn. The one that had gone missing despite thorough prepations and a shard of Wuuthrad to get the attention of The Companions. The one Farkas and the new recruit had run into. The one that had revealed the nature of The Circle to another person. It was good that Farkas had killed them all. The rest of what had come of that had been unfortunate.

An entry told them when this little group had settled in Fellhammer. Recently there had been some correspondance back and forth between this unit and their leaders. The conclusion drained the blood from Aela's face and she heard Vilkas' breath hitch by her shoulder. They had decided to tell The Vigilants of Stendarr that all of the Companions were werewolves. That missive had been sent a mere two days ago to the Hall.

Aela and Vilkas looked at each other. Ria and Torvar would have made it to the Hall several hours ago. Into a gathering of warriors who would expect them to be werewolves, and who might well kill them on the suspicion alone. They read no more, and set out at a run. Blizzard be damned, two of their whelps were in danger of being murdered.

 


End file.
